Travis by Mia Sheridan
CHAPTER THREE
Travis
My jaw felt sore from keeping it permanently clenched for the past three days. Every time I relaxed it, the vision of the young naked dude pounding into my girlfriend filled my mind and I practically bit my own tongue.
A car drove by in the opposite direction, nearly sideswiping me when it veered into my lane. “Holy shit!” I yelled, barely avoiding it, my tires skidding in the roadside gravel. I pulled a quick U-turn, flicking on my lights and siren, and sped to catch up to the drunk tourist driving the battered-looking Honda Accord with an out-of-state license plate.
The tan car came to a slow, idling stop on the shoulder of the road that led from downtown Pelion to the turnoff to Calliope. The heat of the day had mostly burned off, and as I approached the vehicle, a soft breeze lifted my hair and set it down gently. It was a strange feeling . . . almost . . . comforting. I relaxed my jaw, a glare off her vehicle casting my gaze downward, over the bumper stickers. One featured a group of cartoon farm animals and ridiculously stated, Friends Not Food, and the other proclaimed, You’re Never too Old to Play in the Dirt, whatever that meant. The back windows were completely steamed up and the driver’s window was already down. Either the occupant didn’t have AC, or was hoping the breeze in his or her face would help sober them up. It was one of those inebriation tells I’d witnessed too many times to count, but I always kept an open mind.
A head poked out the window, arms folding over the frame as she watched me approach, a hesitant smile on her face, one eye squinted against the sun.
“You almost ran me off the road back there,” I said, leaning back, and turning my head toward the rear of her car when her exhaust pipe rattled loudly. The vehicle looked like it was on its last leg.
“I’m so sorry, Officer. I only looked away from the road for a moment. I feel terrible.”
“License and registration, please.”
A flash of irritation lit her brown eyes, but her lips tipped sweetly and she unfolded her arms, turning and rifling through her glove box and then reaching into her purse on the passenger seat next to a spilled plant. There was dirt scattered over the faded fabric. Another couple of plants lay on the floor, obviously having toppled from the seat as well, and three more sat precariously on the edge of the dashboard.
I took the offered cards. California. Of course. It was where all the nuts came from. “Haven Torres from Los Angeles,” I read.
“That’s me.” She smiled brightly, and then reached over, righting the tipped plant next to her. I noticed a drooping cactus wedged between her tanned thighs.
My eyes held on that cactus. I hadn’t realized a cactus could droop. “What’s wrong with your . . . cactus?”
She frowned. “Oh. It’s just thirsty. Very thirsty.”
There seemed to be several inappropriate innuendos I could come back with, and it pained me not to take the opportunity, but this was official police business.
I bent down, lowering my sunglasses and peering into the backseat of her car. I frowned, my gaze sliding over the veritable jungle. “What is this?”
“Plants,” she said.
“Yes, I can see they’re plants.”
“More specifically, two fishtail palms, a pair of dragon trees, one philodendron, a croton, and that one’s a Natal mahogany,” she finished, lowering the finger she’d pointed into the backseat and grinning at me proudly.
I narrowed my eyes. I had no idea what she’d just said, but it didn’t seem important. My God, plants were everywhere. “Anyway, they’re obscuring your view. No wonder you almost hit me.”
“Oh . . .” Her gaze slid away momentarily. A chestnut curl sprung free of the bun she had secured on the top of her head, bouncing against her cheek. “Well. I would have transported the plants in two carloads, but . . . the nursery was going to throw them away tonight unless I was able to take them all.” I noted the hint of outrage in her voice as though throwing away plants was akin to murdering puppies.
Nursery. There was only one in Pelion so it had to be Fern Alley Botanicals, which was about five miles from where we currently were on the side of the road. Who knew how many pedestrians she’d come close to mowing down between here and there?
She was looking at me expectantly, a certain spark in her eyes that might be nervousness, but I suspected was indignation.
I took another minute, considering her and slapping her cards idly on my wrist. “I could let you go with a warning and risk you driving like a maniac again. Or, I could ticket you and protect the residents of Pelion who rely on me to keep their streets safe. Which one do you think I’ll choose, Haven from California?”
That spark increased, eyes narrowing just a tad in a way that reminded me of how my niece watched me. “Oooh, a guessing game!” She tapped her finger on her pursed lips as if in deep consideration. “I’m not always good under pressure so this is tough. Hmm. Which one will you choose? Which one will you choose?” she muttered, suddenly raising one finger as her gaze snapped to mine. “I’m going to go with, the one that appeals to your thirst for power?”
I almost laughed but held it back, disguising the sound rising from my throat with a cough, amusement warring with annoyance, and a dash of astonishment.
I removed my sunglasses slowly and hung them on my shirt pocket so I could take my time considering her. “Have you had run-ins with the police before, Haven from California? Experiences that make you hostile toward law enforcement?”
“No. Check my record. I’ve never so much as received a speeding ticket. If, in your wise and professional opinion, you deem that I deserve one for my crime, it would be my first. I have no negative personal impressions of the police, other than I think it must be difficult having a job where you constantly think the worst of people. You yourself must be perfect, Officer”—she squinted her eyes at my nametag—“Hale.”
“Chief.”
“Chief,” she repeated. Several more riotous curls escaped and fell around her face as if in protest of this entire interaction. I couldn’t decide if she was pretty or not. Definitely not the sort I usually went for. Not that it mattered anyway. I was swearing off women for the foreseeable future. What I did know was that she looked as wild as the tangle of leaves and vines fighting for space in her car. For several beats we simply looked at each other and I had the strange urge to smile at this insolent woman. I recognized her sarcasm and sardonic comments. I’d written the book on interactions like these. I knew exactly how to manipulate with words. But this girl was doing it in a way that wasn’t cutting but . . . challenging.
And interesting.
I’d only ever managed cutting.
Then again, I’d learned from the very best.
I stood straight. In any case, why was I tolerating this? “You’re going to have to offload a few of those plants,” I instructed.
Her eyes went wide, expression stricken. “I can’t just leave them on the side of the road! I have to go to work. I won’t be able to come back and retrieve them until late tonight.”
“They’re plants. You most definitely can leave them on the side of the road if it means being able to see out your side and back windows. Per the law.”
She turned her head slightly, crooning something into the backseat.
I halted, turning back. “Did you just say something? To the plants?”
She sighed. “Living things feed off energy. I’m sure they feel my distress. I want them to flourish and live, not inhale my anxiety. Especially considering they have to wait here on the side of the road, all alone, until I return.”
“Inhale—” I leaned toward her. “Have you been inhaling something? Should I give you a sobriety test?”
“I don’t do drugs.” She glanced into the backseat again and then her shoulders dropped. For a moment she looked like she’d argue with me about removing the plants, but then she slowly exited her vehicle, looking dejected. I felt oddly sympathetic until I remembered that they were free plants that—frankly—looked like they were at death’s doorstep. “It’s supposed to rain tonight,” I said, illogically.
She glanced at me as she extricated one of the pots from the back seat. “I’m going to drive back and get them later,” she said, handing me the pot and turning around for another. It only took a couple of minutes to transfer enough of them—five—for her side and rearview windows to be unimpeded.
I handed her cards over. “Consider this a warning. Drive safely, Haven from California.”
“Oh I will, Chief Hale from Pelion. Thank you for your mercy.” The side of my lip felt like it was connected to an invisible string and someone gave it one strong yank. I brought my hand up, coughing into my fist again until the spasm stopped. And with that, I nodded and walked back to my cruiser.
